A Proposal
by GBlackwell
Summary: Roy Mustang had almost proposed to Riza Hawkeye twice. And as for the third time, well...


**Typed out quick and scantily edited. My first clumsy attempt at Royai. Hope you enjoy. **

**I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.**

* * *

Roy Mustang had _almost _proposed to Riza Hawkeye exactly two times in his life.

The first time was shortly after discovering the secret of flame alchemy tattooed to her back, and spending hours with her deciphering. That is, it was after he became known as the Flame Alchemist. It had crossed his mind that he liked and respected her a great deal more than any other woman, that she had no one else, and that he owed something to her after what they had shared.

He had just been about to ask the question when she told him, "I am joining the military."

Her resolve had put all thoughts of marriage out of his mind.

The second time was after Ishval. Finally burnt out after the horrors he had seen, exhausted and frustrated to the point of giving up his idealistic dreams of changing the country, he suddenly got the maddening idea that he was going to resign, and live a normal life, damnit. And then, he decided, he could marry her.

But as he was about to tell her this, she asked him about his plans to become Fuhrer and make the country a better place. "Just so you know," she said, "I'll always be right behind you. Now, what were you saying about getting that position in Central?"

How could he think of quitting after that? Thus ended his second attempt.

But as for the third time… well…

* * *

He had everything planned, of course. The restaurant. The music. The ring… He had spent time looking for the right ring: he had gotten a three-gem, fourteen-carat gold ring, the most expensive thing they had at the upper-scale jewelry store he had visited. It was all going to be perfect. Of this he was certain.

She wore a black evening dress: elegant and slightly understated. Her hair was cut short again, like she had worn it a long time ago. She looked beautiful, but that detail was hardly worth noting because she always looked beautiful in whatever dress or haircut she happened to be in at the time.

He eventually brought the conversation around to the topic. "Grumman is thinking of resigning Fuhrership," he stated blankly.

"Yes. He had told me something about that," she replied, her voice low and lacking its usual sternness and force.

Riza Hawkeye was the most unreadable human being he had ever encountered. Even when she had been a thirteen year old girl (that time when girls are supposedly open and emotional) he had never been able to determine what she was thinking. But now, after years spent together, suffering under the same burdens and pursuing the same dream, he had the ability to read the subtle language of her facial expressions. And he _knew _beyond the slightest doubt that she knew where he was going with this. But she sat there calmly, waiting for him to continue.

"I think that we should look ahead to the election," he said.

"Indeed," she replied.

He leaned back in his chair. "Our country has been known to select Fuhrer from a very narrow range of characteristics. Every single Fuhrer has been a retired military general, at least middle-aged, and married."

She raised her eyebrows. "The similarity is probably due to… certain people choosing a particular type of person to lead the country for their purposes rather than actual public opinion," she said. "That will not be a factor in the next selection of Fuhrership."

"True," he said. "But nevertheless, all factors indicate that the people are not ready to change from old patterns."

"Well then," she said lightly, "You have a good chance. Your only real opposition is Armstrong, and there has never been a female Fuhrer before. So in that way of thinking, she is unlikely to be chosen."

True, he realized. He had sexism on his side, fortunately or unfortunately, and it would go a long way to helping him win the election. "Still," he said, "I have been giving a lot of thought for what I can do for my image. To conform to the 'typical Fuhrer' ideal that most of our citizens have in mind."

"Oh?" she asked, sipping from her glass. "Then, according to your logic, you should get married."

He smirked. "That would seem to be a good move."

There was a long pause. He took a few moments to absorb the music in the background, an instrumental version of Puccini's _O mio babbino caro _played by a string quartet in the restaurant. Perfect. That annoying operatic soprano that had been singing a few moments ago was gone.

He continued, "I believe that Fuhrer Grumman has taken steps to rescind the fraternization laws."

"Yes," she said, "He did mention something about it to me the last time we spoke." Not the slightest change of expression… except perhaps the slightest hint of a smile on her lips.

"I believe that the changes will be finalized in a few weeks."

"Yes," she said, in the exact same tone of voice, "Precisely eighteen days from today."

She had been counting. Well.

"Back to the subject of improving my image as a possible Fuhrer," he said. "You recommended marriage."

"Well, as you have said yourself, there has never been an unmarried Fuhrer."

"I would not be against the idea, but finding the right first lady…" he paused deliberately for emphasis. "She would have to be serious, dedicated, capable, and at the same time charming enough to the populace. She would also have to be easy enough to live with, since she would be at my side constantly."

"Is that so," she said. It probably should have been a question, but it came out more as a statement. "Well, not many women live up to those standards."

"And that's the problem," he agreed. "Can you name a few?"

"Gracia Hughes," she stated. He saw her eyes flicker with amusement.

"Ah yes. Maes' praise of her is quite accurate and deserving, of course," he said. "But I don't think that I should marry my best friend's widow. How would that look to the public?" he asked with an over-dramatic sigh, as though that was the real reason that he couldn't consider Gracia as a possible spouse.

'Well," she said. "Is there someone else you have in mind?"

"Yes," he said. "I have a very specific woman in mind."

"Is she beautiful?"

"She is the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on," he responded, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

She quietly returned his gaze; words were unnecessary.

"Lieutenant… I mean, Captain…" he said, switching to her new title. Then, he shook his head and said what he realized he ought to: "Riza." It had been so long since he had said that name that it felt like the first time he had ever said it. He watched her shiver from the uncertainty of it, and he said in the same soft voice, "There's only one woman who could ever be my first lady."

Another long pause. _O mio babbino caro _had finished and the string quartet began Fauré's _Pavane. _

He took out a little black box, repressed the urge to gulp, and slid it across the table. "You… are that woman," he finished.

Her expression melted, and she took the box. Slowly, she opened it with a tiny _click. _

She stared at the ring the box for what seemed like hours. He felt his heart quickening in his chest, and his vision become hyper-sensitive to any movement on her face.

"Sir, I…" she began, but stopped. Then, he saw her features suddenly become like lead. It was a slight change, but there had definitely been life there a moment ago, and now… stoniness? His heart sank. "I cannot accept this ring."

It took him a while to process the rejection. And when he did, he wished she had just shot him. It wouldn't have hurt this badly. He couldn't speak: his throat suddenly ached too much to say anything.

"Sir…?"

"I… I respect that," he told her. God, his eyes were stinging. He blinked. Why did his heart feel like it was on fire? And his head…it was swimming. Everything fell out of focus for a moment, everything except for the rejection.

_She refused. She refused. Why…? What…?_

Had he mistaken their entire relationship all this time? Was it possible that she could be that devoted to their cause, that devoted to _him, _and not be in love with him?

_Into hell, if you so desire, _she had said. _I have no intention of living on, free of care after you die. _

Could that not be love? Or was it something else entirely, a determination to change the world through him?

"I… just…" he said hoarsely, but had to stop. "Why?"

She looked at him. "You want to know all of the reasons why I… would not want to marry you?"

He nodded, barely able to respond.

"Well," she said, "There is the womanizing."

"What?" he asked. This was not what he had been expecting. But she continued, her voice completely calm and rational.

"Yes. A man who has philandered as much as you have will probably not settle down easily into a single-woman relationship," she stated, turning her eyes away from him.

Was she serious? _That _was the reason he had lost her? He hadn't expected it to be something so… petty. A bit of anger and indignation stirred in him. "What if I pointed out that half of the women I supposedly had affairs with were my adopted sisters, and that I kept up the appearance of these 'affairs' because I was getting valuable intelligence from them and my foster mother?"

"I would have to point out that the remaining half is still quite a formidable amount," she replied coolly.

He twitched at this comment. "Is that really why? Or…"

"I am merely stating one reason why it might be disadvantageous," she said. "I can think of a few, not the least of which is that I am not suited to be a first lady, and that I would much rather hold an office."

"Are you… in love with someone?" he asked.

She looked down.

"You are," he said, his brain reeling. "Who?" he remembered how she had seemed excited about the fraternization laws changing. "Someone in the military?" he asked.

Her lips parted for a moment, and then she replied, "Yes. Someone in the military.'

"Who is he?" he asked. "He's ranked lower than me, isn't he?"

"Well, most are," she said, "Now that you've been promoted to Brigadier General."

Then, suddenly a thought came to mind. "Is it Havoc?" he asked.

She gave an exasperated sigh."Sir…"

"It is," he said quickly, cutting her off. "Well, I… I wish you both the best."

And then, he got up hastily and walked out of the restaurant.

* * *

There was a city river by the fancy restaurant he had picked. He walked along that river, trying to keep any of that ugly feeling—_envy, _ha—he felt against one of his best friends out of his mind. He did not regret getting Jean Havoc the use of his legs back. He did not wish that the blond soldier had died in their encounter with Lust. He definitely did not want to burn Jean Havoc to a crisp.

He was not telling himself how _easy _it would be either. Definitely not. He was above such feelings… he could let go of the woman that he loved easily and graciously.

And if he kept telling himself all of those things long enough, they would become true. He was a master of hypocrisy, after all. The "Hero" of Ishval, the man who burned down an entire people and then struggled to undo his mistake. He was so pathetic. No wonder she couldn't love him. He didn't deserve…

"Sir!" he heard a voice calling. _Her _voice. She sounded worried. He didn't want to even look her in the face right now.

He heard her footsteps come up behind him. He stopped.

"Sir… the ring."

"Do whatever you want with it," he said miserably. "I don't want it anymore."

He heard her sigh. "Were you just wallowing in self-loathing right now?"

"Well, it seems as though there isn't much of another option."

"Let me guess," she said, sarcasm lacing her voice, "You had just gotten over planning to kill Jean, and were about to launch into a depressing inner monologue about how you don't deserve anything because of Ishval. Am I correct, sir?"

"You know me so well, Captain," he said, as coldly and formally as he could manage.

"Of course, sir. But the ring."

"Like I said, do what you want with it…"

"I happen to want to give it back to you, sir," she said, her voice hard. "After all, you will need the refund."

"Oh?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Now take it."

He turned around, avoided her eyes (it was easy enough in the dark) and took the box from her hand.

"You will take it back, and get a refund if possible," she told him, her voice clear and sharp, "The next ring will be a simple band. Pure silver, not gold. No diamond, pearls or other assortment."

He looked up, and met her eyes. "What?"

"I am telling you how the next ring will be designed. No inscriptions, though if you think of something, you might tell me about it. If I like it…"

"Riza-?" he asked, sudden hope rising in his heart.

She smiled at him. A full smile.

"But…? You said…?"

"I said I could not accept this ring. And I can't, sir," she told him, "Because I honestly can't stand diamonds."

He gaped at her.

"But… you said…"

"You asked me why I wouldn't." Am mischievous look glinted in her eyes. "And… I decided to give you all of the possible reasons that I wouldn't. _If_ I wasn't"

He was dumbfounded. "So… Jean…?"

"…Will be quite amused when he hears this story, for sure," she finished for him.

He stared at her. Then, suddenly, he laughed, and she joined him. Their merry peals echoed across the river.

"You must admit, sir," she said, as they finally finished, "That it would be quite ironic, poetic even, if Jean Havoc had stolen the woman that you had proposed to."

"It would have," he agreed. "I still wanted to strangle him."

"So, sir…"

"Call me Roy."

"Roy, then," she said, her face bright and happy, more joyful than he had ever seen it, even when she had been a young girl. "I presume that our first child will be called Maes?"

"Definitely."

"Even if it's a girl?" she asked.

"Er, well maybe not." He said, "Then again, it would be… distinct."

"I'm certain our daughter would not want such a masculine name."

"Elizabeth, then?"

"Very well. Now, is there anything else you need me for, sir?"

"You mean 'Roy.'"

"Roy," she said, raising her arm into a salute. A mocking salute, but just as impeccable as every other one she had given him. "Will that be all?"

"No," he said. "There is one more thing…"

And he stepped close to her, embraced her, felt her soft flesh. He leaned over, ready to meet her lips….

She turned her cheek away. "For shame_, Roy_," she responded, her voice ironically formal, "The fraternization rules don't end for another eighteen days."

Damnit!

* * *

They were married exactly eighteen days from that. It was a small wedding, more of a civil service than anything else. It was witnessed by Jean Havoc, Heymans Breda, Kain Fuery, Bishop Falman, Gracia and Elysia Hughes and Fuhrer Grumman himself, who was delighted that his granddaughter had finally gotten married. The Elrics were absent simply because they had not been informed in time.

They got married in complete military uniform. The wedding rings were simple, silver bands. Graceful and dignified, yet not calling any more attention to themselves than the wonderful woman he had chosen.

And it was a good day; probably—no, it _had _to be—the best in Brigadier General Roy Mustang's life.

And Jean _never _got over the tale Hawkeye shared with him about Mustang's proposal.


End file.
